The Shambala Chronicle: What Happened Next
by Wesker888
Summary: Sequal to Full Metal Journal. Movie based. Follow Scotty Rodyle as he tries to get his life back after the events of FullMetal. DISCONTINUED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
1. Entry 1

**The Shambala Chronicle**

I'm ba-_ACK_!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the long-awaited sequel to Full Metal Journal.

Now, as most of you know, I wrote the first one without having seen most episodes in the anime. As I finished the story up, I finally got to see most of them, including the ones with Maes Hughes. Now, I write the sequel without having seen the movie.

As I always say, irony sucks.

Now, if you haven't read Full Metal Journal, I suggest you read that one first. Or, you can just read this chapter, as I'm using it to briefly summarize what happened last story.

Of course, I start each chapter saying I don't own _FullMetal Alchemist_, or _Conquerors of Shambala_, or Ed Elric, or Al Elric, or Roy Mustang or Riza Hawkeye or… I think you get the picture.

So, without further ado, here you go. To the old hands, especially Alchemy202 (I hope), welcome back.

And to new readers:

Welcome to my world:

* * *

Entry 1:

I don't really know what it was that got me writing in a journal again. Maybe it was all my pent-up frustration and anger towards the past that got me to spill out my life on paper, just to get it out. Maybe it was that my brother Jeffrey gave me this for my 20th birthday several months back and he's been bugging me to write in it. Or… maybe I just needed to feel like I was back there… with all of them with me, on one of those nice summer days we liked to enjoy.

Or I could've just been bored.

Well, whatever it was, I'm writing now. And I guess the most natural place to start would be that…

I was a soldier.

Back when I was eighteen, I, idiot that I was- and am-, volunteered to join the Grand Central Army. I was there for almost nine months. During that time, I saw two skirmishes- one minor but deadly, the other I had the good fortune to be on the outskirts of. During that time, me and my comrades faced all sorts of deadly enemies- including those of the higher-ups that commanded us.

I was in 3rd Platoon, under the command of 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc. Our overall command varied. I guess you could say our true commander was Colonel (later promoted to Brigadier General) Roy Mustang, an old-time veteran State Alchemist and a man all of us knew we could trust with our lives.

Then there was his opposite- Lieutenant Colonel (later promoted to Colonel) Frank Archer. He was an Investigations officer turned war-nut, and it seemed his only main concern was with getting a medal. None of us were too fond of him during our time with him, but we coped.

The coolest officer we had was Lieutenant Colonel (later promoted to Brigadier General) Maes Hughes- a good man. True, he only dealt with crime scenes and stuff, but he was funny and deadly loyal to his wife, Gracia.

But… he died. A week after a fierce battle that all of us knew as "the Battle of the 5th Laboratory", he was killed doing some police work that turned deadly. That's why they promoted him- out of honor. To this day, I still haven't forgotten.

He left behind a daughter too- Elyica. He loved her more than anything, and it showed in the fact that he was always showing off about twenty reels of pictures to anyone or anything that wasn't inanimate. She's… _six_ now, yeah, that sounds right.

Anyhoo, with _that_ aside, now I'll go in chronological order.

When I joined up, I was placed in the 2nd Squad, originally under the command of Sergeant Angelo Fish- another old-timer. When I joined up, there were ten in the squad and they immediately- with maybe one or two exceptions- accepted me as one of their own.

For about two or three months, we were in the stage of completely uneventful occurrences. During this time, I established my reputation as a bit of a troublemaker. One event that sticks out in my mind was the time we had to clean out then Lt. Col. Hughes' file room and I prank called him home so the rest of us could throw a party. Was pretty fun until I got caught and was forced to do a large report on artificially created human beings called "homunculi."

But more on those later.

While nothing happened to us, over Eastward there was trouble in the form of an Ishbalan killer named simply "Scar." To go into the whole history would take too much time, and I wouldn't know where to begin, so I'll just write this: There was a war in Ishbal, more like a massacre, the city was destroyed, about 90 percent of the population was killed. Scar thought he could make up for this by killing off our State Alchemists, who were the main cause of the extermination. His last major kill was Brigadier General Basque Gran, the Fuhrer's- our overall division commander- deputy commander and the proclaimed "Iron-Blood Alchemist". After that, Scar kinda disappeared for a while, but we would meet up with him again eventually.

We in Central had absolutely no care for that- life went on peacefully. Pranks pulled, storied told, and I celebrated my 19th birthday. And, as we progressed, I became fond of the guys I was with and we formed a bond- one that was stronger than friendship, stronger even than family. We knew the others better than we knew ourselves.

And then came Lab 5. God damn it, that was a rough night for me. Pardon my French. One of our State Alchemists went in there, though it was off-limits, to look something up. It was supposed to only take a few minutes, an hour at most.

Instead, it turned into an entire eight-hour ordeal reducing my company to about a platoon and a half's worth of men. Six men from my squad were wounded- squad leader Fish, machine gunner Jack "Schmitty" Smith (who would eventually come back, just to get wounded again), Paul "Gemini" Gunner, a little guy that loved automail; Evan "Boozer" Toydarian, a 300-pound veteran that got his nickname from the amount of booze he drank; and best friends/practical jokers Harry Blake and Aaron Waverly, who were from my hometown. They were all evacuated out of there and I never heard what had become of any of them.

With them gone, our squad was reduced to me and four others- five, after a replacement was shipped in to make even numbers. After that fiasco, we thought we could just go back to normal.

How wrong we were.

Hughes was killed, not long after that. Shot by homunculi, those things I had looked up. After that, nothing really went back to normal.

We spent a lot of time after that with our ears open, seeing if we could hear anything unusual that we could possibly use to expose the murderers. We heard things, but not what we had expected. Just that someone from our higher ups may have been involved. We wanted to know the truth.

But it was the army, and we were allowed maybe a week to try before it had to be business as usual. Hughes was replaced by Archer, who tried- and failed- to gain our respect. Many jokes were told about him, and many nicknames- amongst them being "Col. Looney-Tune"- surfaced. We hated him, and half the time I always had the impression he hated us.

And then- _They_ came. The homunculi. And they attacked me. Three of them- A busty woman that took a bullet to the head and lived, a psychopathic shapeshifter, and a three thousand pound lard-ass that chased me halfway across the city. They were immortal, inhumane beings, killing anyone and everything just so they could acquire some mythical diamond. And those tattoos- the Ouroborus tattoo. The snake devouring its own tail- the cycle of life and death.

Somehow, I escaped from them, fighting my way through. Apparently, someone higher-up must've seen some significance to it. So it was a few days later that I was promoted to the rank of Sergeant by Archer. The 2nd Squad was now mine. The next two months brought about new routine- I now had to managed a squad of roughly eleven guys, twelve counting myself, at the same time as make daily reports and having to be in the same room as Archer for long periods of time.

Needless to say, life got a little hectic from time to time.

Finally, it came. Our first war. It was to take place in the desert town of Lior. Scar's doing. We transported there by train and waited it out. Nothing serious- no one (from my squad, anyway) got hurt.

But then we learned- Scar was trying to make a legendary and horrifying object called the Philosopher's Stone. Someone had it and all restrictions bound by laws and rules went right out the window. But there was a catch- it had to be made sacrificing human lives. By the truckload. And that's what we were for- we were ingredients. Cannon fodder. Guinea pigs. In short, _we_ would be the Stone.

And the soldiers were- not us, because I downright refused. We paid a heavy price during the battle of Lior, amongst them Archer- the entire right half of his body was gone.

We returned to Central not long after that, but no time to rest. War in the North had us packing up and getting ready to go back out. This time, however, I did not go with them- I had another job.

We had heard reports that our Fuhrer was a homunculus, and, if proven true, we would have to take him out. Me, Mustang, and 1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, Mustang's aide, would sneak through the city and go to his mansion. The plan was that I'd wait while he and Hawkeye went for the Big Cheese. Hawkeye would distract the guards, and Mustang would get down and dirty with old man Bradley. When that was done, I'd drive through, pick them up, and we'd roll out. Easy-peasy.

It didn't work out that way.

While they were off playing hero, I ran into an Archer that had become so heavily modified with automail that he was now more machine than man, and a battle ensured. It was here that I was wounded- his mouth machine gun tore three bullets straight into my left leg. He took my car and I was forced to limp my way to the now burning Fuhrer's mansion. It was over when I got there- Mustang had won, but had his left eye shot out by Archer, who had used my handgun that he had stolen from me to do it before Hawkeye finished the robo-menace off.

I was then sent to Central Hospital for recuperation. The docs told me that my leg would be fine and, although it would be kind of a discomfort, I could keep it. And – and I still can't believe it, after all this time- he said I was going home.

But that isn't the end of the story. From here, it gets depressing.

While I was recovering, I got a visitor- Pete Regazzi, one of my squad mates and a very dear friend. He had been wounded slightly during the last days of the war in the North, but the real wounds he suffered were emotional ones. Ones he passed onto me.

My squad was pretty much decimated. Most of the new guys were OK, thankfully. However, one of my friends, Steve Owens- a tall thin man with glasses whom we all called "The Shadow"- went insane and blew his arms off with a hand grenade. He was evacuated to a hospital at Southern HQ, but as to if he lived or not, I just don't know.

But the real hard part was that three of my buddies, guys I had been through everything with, were dead. Corporal Manny Castillo, another old-timer and the assistant squad leader with wild red hair, was killed by a random sniper after a big battle. Dwight Perry, a buck-toothed relatively new guy with a nickname "Squeaker" that suit him, had his eyes blown out by shrapnel and then charged straight into an MG line of fire, which ripped him up.

And… my best friend Danny Jones- this black writer that we all called "Smokey"- was killed by a tank shell that completely decimated him. The only main piece left of him was his hat, which Regazzi gave to me before he left and which, in turn, I sent to his parents. His death was particularly difficult for me to accept; out of all of my squad mates, he was the one I stuck with the most. Without him, that entire experience would have been true hell.

…I still can't believe he's gone…

Finally, I was discharged from Central Hospital after a week of rest. I hopped the first train for home, and that was the last I ever saw of the city… or any of its people.

"Humankind cannot gain anything, without first giving something in return"…

It's been almost two years since I learned that.

……..

Oh, who am _I_, you ask? Duh, where are my manners?

I'm Scott Rodyle.

Formerly _Sergeant _Scott Rodyle.

But you can just call me Scotty.

I'm twenty years old, living in the little Eastern town known to all of you as Risembool and to me, _home_. I'm a runner by profession… and, as I've come to be known, a bit of a writer as well.

And I think that's the long and short of it for now.

* * *

For the record, I finished this chapter in October. But I wanted to keep true to my word on getting it out by January, as I wanted to finish the first in my _New Organization_ series.

For another record, this chapter is longer than all the chapters in my first story. How d'ya like _them_ apples?

Yeah, I know: Not much of an entry. Basically, I just used this chapter to summarize everything that happened last story. For any newcomers out there.

But here's something that _didn't _happen last story- a new feature to this story. It's called:

**Chapter Summary!**

Basically, now, at the end of each chapter, I write a brief description of what's gonna happen next chapter. So you all have something to look forward too.

So, here's next chapter:

_Scotty tells about life after he returned home from the events in Central, how his days go, and how, for some, old wounds never truly fade._

Not much, I know, but there you have it.

Aaaah…. it feels really good to be doing this again.

Peace out… and review please!


	2. Entry 2

**The Shambala Chronicle**

I do not own _Conquerors of Shambala_. Literally. I never bought it; it's not upstairs resting in my DVD player or on top of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. I never saw it; therefore, I don't own it.

Chapter two is up. Not too many hits so far, but I got an old hand back on board (welcome back, Tressa), so it's good. I know it'll pick up as I keep going.

I'm not entirely sure how long this story'll be yet. I doubt it'll be 42 chapters long, like last one was, but you never know.

Enjoy:

* * *

Entry 2: 

Since returning from Central, my days have fallen into boring routine. Before I joined up, I never threw myself into routine; too boring, _waaay_ too boring. That's all changed now; now I can't live without it.

Every morning, I wake up, go downstairs, and enjoy some breakfast. I still live at home, despite the fact that I'm old enough to have my own place. I don't work and I don't do a whole hell of a lot around the house, but for some odd reason, my parents never complain. They're so supportive. I think it's because they're just so glad to have me back and alive.

My mom usually has a nice, hot, heaping plate of pancakes and sausage waiting for me. Being in the army, my taste buds went through the crapper with the crap they called food, so now I savor each and every taste that comes into my mouth. After all those months of slop, I never take real food for granted ever again.

After breakfast, me and Jeffie go out and shoot some hoops. Now this was a familiar pastime. Back in the old days, whenever I wasn't busy with track or dates, I would always have time for him, hanging out and playing.

It's weird, but me and my brother never had an always-fighting relationship. I never got pissed at him (except for one time when he took one of my "special" magazines for "scientific" reasons), and he never gets pissed at me (except for that one time I got pissed at him). I dunno, I guess he's just looked up to me too much to be a pain in the ass brother, and I'm just too cool to really bug him, so we get along. I've always been the one to look after him too. Even if I get him into all kinds of trouble, I'm always there to bail him out, too.

So we play ball for a while, then I go upstairs and rest a little. I've been doing that a lot. I guess you could say I go through life as if I were in a trance. My dad thinks it's that part of me died in that hospital when Regazzi gave me the news, but I'm not really sure. I don't feel too different, other than the fact that I'm not as mischievous and laid back as I used to be.

After resting a while, I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and go for a jog up the giant ass hill to the cemetery. It's a good work out- about a mile and a half up the hill, in addition to the two and a half miles to the hill, then back, about eight miles in all. That may seem like a lot, but to me, it's a breeze.

My leg still hasn't fully healed. True, I don't have a limp anymore, and it feels fine most of the time, but sometimes, especially when I'm running, it gets sore really fast. And one time, I felt burning pain where the three bullets made contact with the skin. I think it was on the anniversary of the day I got shot; kinda funny, huh?

Needless to say, though, it kinda sucks.

After the run, I go home, have some lunch, and then walk around town. In case you don't know, Risembool is a small enough town where you know pretty much everybody by sight, if not by name. And seeing as how my dad owns the drug store, everyone knows _me_ by name; especially the women.

But these days, whenever one sees me in town, they usually just give me a pleasant little smile and a nod. They know what I've been through- hell, the whole world does, or at least those who read do- and they keep their opinions to themselves.

It really bugs me, how different I've become. Before I left, I was Mr. Jock, the cool kid in school. My grades weren't always the best, but the teachers still loved me anyway. I couldn't go a whole weekend without having a date with at least _one_ girl. I was the track star; me and my friends had the place eating out of our hands.

But these days, all of my friends are now either joined up or just finishing up their tours. And, of course, some of them didn't come back in one piece, or in about three cases, alive. Risembool certainly did a crapload of help for Amestris' army.

Especially in the one case…

Which lead me to today's walk; on the last mile or so coming home, I hear a giant barrage of laughter and loud talking. It comes from the last house on the block. I go for a look and see a pleasant surprise: Alphonse Elric, fresh back from training with his teacher.

It's still kind of weird seeing Al in his normal, twelve-year-old body; whenever I think of him, I usually see a giant suit of armor and a blood seal attached on the inside.

I suppose I should get into the whole story:

Edward Elric, known to the world as the "FullMetal Alchemist" and his brother Al were neighbors of mine growing up. About eight years ago, or thereabouts, their mother Trisha died, and they, being the skilled alchemists they were, decided to bring them back, despite the fact that human alchemy is illegal.

The result came in Ed losing his left leg and Al, his entire body. In order to save his little brother, Ed also gave up his right arm to attach Al's soul to a suit of armor. They were found by the Rockbells- Winry and her grandma, Pinako- both automail experts. They patched Ed up with an automail arm and leg, hence the name FullMetal. They left to join the State Alchemists- Army alchemists, in other words- and find a method to somehow bring them back to normal.

A lot of people have asked me how I knew about the Elric brothers' situation; it was, after all, a heavily guarded secret. I never tell them, but the truth is, I happened to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. About three days after the surgery, I stopped by the Rockbells to deliver some goods from my dad's store, and I "accidentally" overheard Ed telling Winry all about it. Unfortunately, Granny Pinako picked that exact time to show up, and boy, did she let me have it. I was allowed to live, but I could not tell a soul about what I had heard- a promise I was all too eager to keep.

That was the last time I saw the Elrics until years later, when Smokey, Schmitty, and myself encountered them in Central. We got a lot of trouble and grief over the Elric brothers, but we never took it out on them. They were, after all, just kids.

In the end, Al finally got his ten-year-old body back, with absolutely no recollection of his time as Iron Man. But, as with all things in life, it came at a price; Ed had disappeared. To this day, his whereabouts are known only to God. We all miss him.

He was just another casualty in a long war…

Winry was one of those hit hardest. Deep down, I think there was a love interest that had never been properly explored between the two. She put on a strong front in front of others, but… I don't know.

Well, I'm done for now. I'm gonna go see what's on T.V.

* * *

I can't _begin_ to tell you how many people I got complaining to me last time that Scotty couldn't have possibly known about Ed and Al. Well, to that, I say: here's how. 

Maybe now, more people will read.

**Chapter Summery:**

_With nothing to lose, Scotty prepares for a confrontation with Al in hopes that maybe he could gain some clues into what happened to Ed._

Review please.


	3. Entry 3

**The Shambala Chronicle**

I do not own _Conquerors of Shambala_. And, by the way Emily's been hogging the DVD and going on about how Ed should be with Winry instead of that… what was that gypsy chick's name? Eh, whatever. Point is, I probably won't get to see it.

Welcome back, Alchemy202. Glad to hear from you again. I have the whole story pretty much rough drafted, so an actual beta isn't really necessary. But I do appreciate spell checks and stuff, any you notice. Or just hints or ideas that I could somehow work in there would be pretty cool.

Anyhoo, on with the show:

* * *

Entry 3:

OK, that was a really bad idea. Terrible mistake. Probably one of the worst ones I ever made. And not only that, now I have a splitting headache. Damn mechanics…

Guess you're wondering, huh? Well, what happened was…

I just paid a visit to Al.

This morning, I woke up, went to my window, and saw smoke coming from the Rockbell house, signaling that someone or more than one person were awake. Then I remembered; Al was back, and chances were, he was probably living with the Rockbells.

Then, the thought came to my mind- I would ask Al if he knew anything about Ed.

I knew right off the bat that the chances of me walking away with anything more than a massive bruise on my head, courtesy of a wrench, were very slim. Last I heard, he didn't know anything, didn't _remember_ anything. That was when I was still hospitalized. Who's to say anything's changed since then?

But, then I thought: Well, maybe I could force some memories out. And not in a physical way, just a mental coaxing. This doc I've been seeing says that the best way to confront the past is to talk it out with someone. Just talk for the hell of talking, and have it be with someone or something like that.

So, I said to myself, "Alright, what the hell?"

The walk there seemed slow, which was odd, seeing as how I lived right down the street from them. I guess I took my time, trying to figure out exactly what I was gonna say. Knowing me, I would've probably rushed in and said something entirely stupid that would've got me transmuted into a friggin side-drawer or something like that. Planning is the key to everything. How many times could a soldier be taught that?

Once I got to the stairs, however, I panicked. I was about to come face to face with Al, for the first time in over a year, or five, since he didn't remember the last four. Only God knew the true horror that I was about to face.

Climbing the stairs felt like climbing a mountain, despite the fact there were only three of them. My hand was shaking as it turned into a fist and hammered away at the door. My heart was pounding so loudly, I could hear it going off in my head like a jackhammer.

_Just turn around and go the other way, _was all that went through my mind at the moment, but before the message could compute and send it to my feet, the door opened and Winry Rockbell stood before me. I gulped. Not good.

Before I go any further, I guess I should explain now that Winry and I do not have the best relationship going. True, I've known her since she was a baby and vice versa. Through high school, I always had the distinct impression that she was one of my many female admirers, but that changed when she found out I was joining up. Out last real meeting played through my mind as I ran my hand over the spot where that wrench had made contact. I just hoped it wouldn't meet metal a second time.

"Oh…Sergeant Rodyle," she said, kinda sullenly, kinda coldly. I know full well how that works. I was like that for about three months after I got back from Central. I'm pretty sure I reminded her of stuff she didn't want to remember.

I told her not to call me "sergeant", as I wasn't a soldier and hadn't been one in over a year.

"I came to talk to Al. Is he home?"

For a minute, I thought she'd either tell me to go away, or she'd pull out the wrench and send me to the land of the comas. But she didn't do either. She bit her lip, probably contemplating the best course of action. Whatever it was, I prayed it would be me stepping through the door and trying to find some answers.

Finally, she sighed, stepped sideways, and allowed the passage to become available to me. Inwardly, I grinned.

I was in.

I found Al sitting in the living room, reading a book and looking just dandy. It was still weird, seeing him as a boy and not as a metal can, but I suppose this was better. He looked up as I walked into the room and put a big smile on his face.

"Hey, Scotty," he greeted cheerfully. He knew who I was. When he was little, I'd baby-sit for him sometimes. Ed too, though he never seemed happy about it when I did.

I greeted him as cheerfully as I could, and I asked what he was reading. He explained, and even though he went into a whole forty-five minute conversation on the thing, I still didn't know what it was.

"It's an alchemy book," was all I really got out of it.

Let me take the time before I say anything else to explain something again: I know nothing about alchemy. Well, I know stuff, but I don't _know_ stuff, y'know what I'm saying? Like, I know what the transmutation circle thing is, but I'll be damned if I'm asked what exactly it does or how it works. The way I see it, it gets us stuff, it makes life a hell of a lot easier, so why question it? That's for guys like Shadow to figure out. I just live with it. So, when Al went into this whole alchemic talk, I just zoned out, not comprehending any of that mumbo-jumbo.

The rest of the conversation flowed away from that stuff. The only mention he made to alchemy was his teacher, who had passed away not long ago, God rest her soul. In turn, I told him that I had recently got a job working at my dad's drug store. True; started yesterday, and I get a pretty good deal out of it, seeing as how my dad runs the place. And we talked about this and that, nothing really, just passing the time.

It was when he mentioned how much he missed his brother that I finally stuck in the question I had been meaning to ask for a while:

"Al…do you remember anything? About…about what happened?"

Just like that, the smile that had been glued to Al's face the entire time faded and he came up with a sad one that was accompanied with a sigh.

"Everyone keeps asking me that," he told me, "But I just… try as hard as I can… I can't remember anything."

He stuck to that, even when I started pressing a little harder. I didn't mean to be hard on the kid, that was the last thing I wanted. But I needed answers, hell, we all needed answers. So pressing was what I did. Hell, Archer used to press me harder than this, so considering that, I was small-fry.

I guess the pressure was a bit too much, though, because for a minute, he looked like he was about to cry. That was when Winry came in. I guess she had been eavesdropping on the conversation, as though expecting me to pull something like this off.

"That's enough," she stated firmly, "He doesn't remember anything, and your pressing isn't going to help matters. Just leave him alone."

I told her that I knew she was trying to protect him, and that was just fine, but Ed was missing, and if she didn't give a rat's ass about it, fine by me, but the rest of us actually cared about him, and want to know what happened.

That was the last thing I remember saying. When I woke up, I had a splitting headache, and I think my ears were ringing. I was back in my bed, an ice pack melting away on my head. Right away, I knew what had happened.

Goddam mechanics, I swear to God…

* * *

Yeah, that's all.

**Chapter Summery**: _Scotty tells of the nightmares he's suffered every night since Central and how for him, life can never go back to normal._

Review please.


	4. Entry 4

**The Shambala Chronicle**

I don't own Shambala…does anybody, really? Is it ownable, do you know?

Sorry for the long wait. Here you go.

Well, anyhoo, here's chapter four. Enjoy:

* * *

Entry 4:

That dream came back again.

Why the hell won't it leave me alone?

Just when I think it's gone, it just comes right back again.

I picked it up in Central, the night after Regazzi told me the news. Ever since I got back, it comes and goes. Usually, I'm fine; I have a good, healthy sleep. But then, when something happens that gets me in a bum mood, it comes back. In this case, the occasion was my failure with trying to being Al back to the present.

It comes when I'm depressed, and it stays for a week or so afterwards, and it usually takes some deep meditation to get rid of it. But it never works permanently. If it had, I wouldn't be writing about it now.

Every dream is the same: I'm in Lior, and we're in the pitch of a battle that never occurred. Makes you wonder why I'm dreaming about it, if it never happened, huh? But there I am, firing my rifle at an enemy I can't even see. Snipers pop out from everywhere. Guys from my platoon keep going down, either wounded or killed; all of them faceless, their names I've long since forgotten.

And then, suddenly, it all stops. Everything and everyone…minus me. It was like that time I tried to invent a machine to stop time, and my cousins were screwing with me by pretending to stand still. I lower my rifle and look around. One guy's coming at me- or, I should probably say flying at me, as he's been hit in the chest by a ricochet and is caught in mid-air, the blood that had been spurting out staying exactly where it had been. Two guys, one's a medic, are treating, or at least _were_ treating, a third guy who was on the ground covering his twitching stump of what used to be his left leg. In another area, a shell had just exploded- well, was in the middle of exploding- and three guys were frozen in mid-air, hit by the shrapnel. Despite these horrific scenes, there were no screams, no all-too-familiar calls for a medic, and no sounds of war that accompanied them.

The Atrocities of War Exhibit, stationed at the luxurious Central Museum. Tickets only, no food or drinks, and flash photography is out of the question.

I keep looking around, searching for someone familiar out of the faceless crowd of soldiers that just a few minutes ago had lead enter- and in some cases, exit- their bodies. Finally, I do. But not in the way I would want.

I see Castillo, walking towards me with his arms outstretched, a large blood stain on his chest from where the sniper's bullet passed through from his back. I see Squeaker, doing the same, with gaping, bloody holes where his eyes used to be, blood pouring out of the holes where the machine-gun stitched him up. I see Shadow, copying those movements. Minus the arms outstretched, because…well, last I heard, he didn't have those. They and a bunch of other dead men come at me, like zombies out of a bad movie. But instead of moaning, they're all chanting the same damn thing: "You left us, you abandoned us." And I try to turn away, but they're everywhere, and then all of a sudden, the bright red light that had wiped Lior off the map in the real world comes and…then I wake up.

It's no wonder I don't see Smokey in those dreams; Regazzi told me there had been noting left of my former best friend, save for his hat. But the others…it just kills me, every time I wake up and remember what they say. Because I did leave them… I did abandon them. If I hadn't have stayed to help out the Brig. Gen. and the Lt… maybe I could've been there to save the others.

God damn it, I was their squad leader, and I wasn't even there to save my veterans from getting annihilated. And for what? A bullet in the leg, and my android of a C.O. shooting the guy I was supposed to be protecting, with _my_ handgun, no less? What help was I to Mustang, or Hawkeye? None at all, from what I can figure.

In the mornings after the dreams, I sit in my bed and I ask myself: How do you go back, to a time where life was simpler? Where death and dying didn't affect you, where the worst things that could happen to your friends was of Jimmy blowing out his knee on the track? And I try to find an answer I like. But the thing is- once you've seen was, really lived it, breathed it, seen guys you knew better than yourself get killed or maimed by it…once you really take that in, and make it apart of your daily life, then the sad truth of the matter is…

There is no going back.

At least…not for me, there isn't.

* * *

Yeah, it's been a while. If I had an excuse, I'd offer it. As it turns out, I don't, but you can take this chapter and I'll see if I can get the next one out tonight.

**Chapter Summery**: _Things begin to look up for Scotty as a chance encounter at a bookstore introduces him to someone who may be the key to moving on with his life._

Enjoy, and review please!


	5. Entry 5

**The Shambala Chronicle**

I don't own Shambala, and the rights of it go to…whoever the friggin' alchemist was that conjured it up.

Enjoy.

* * *

Entry 5:

Today was probably _the_ most random day I've ever experienced in my entire life, yet it was probably also the one day I really needed since I got back from Central.

So I was on my way home from my usual walk today. And on the way, I pass the bookstore, which is about a block away from where I live. And all of a sudden, I remember that Jeffie had wanted that new manga that had come out, the one I can never remember the name to. So I figure, alright, what the hell, I'm right here… might as well grab it. And so, I went in.

Now, the Risembool bookstore isn't like the one they have in Central, but in a pinch, it has just about everything you'd ever want. I've never been one to spend time in here, but even I am impressed with how wide a selection they have for such a small place. Just goes to show, size isn't all that matters.

Anyway, I found Jeffie's manga and was on my way to the counter when I started hearing this guy talking loudly to a group of customers about this one book that was, as he called it, "Risembool-bred true and blue". Meaning the author was a Risembool boy or something like that. As I waited in line to make my purchase, I couldn't help but overhear the rest. The guy spoke as if he had a bunch of mics on him anyway. He went on and on, saying how this book had been a bestseller since it had been published, cherishing how "real" it was, and saying it had been top of the charts for the last six months.

Well, finally, curiosity won over me, and I took a sneak peek over to the table where this "No. 1 All-Time Book" was. Of course, I stopped dead when, lo and behold, the title shot out right at me:

**Full Metal Journal:**

_By _

_Sgt. Scott Rodyle_

Of all the tens of millions of freaking books out there in the world, how is it that _my_ book has stayed on the freaking top for six months? For Gods sakes, people, that "bestseller" was made out of a crappy journal based on my personal thoughts and opinions, mainly bitching about blistered feet and no women! Either every single freaking person in the world is on crack, or they just don't know any better.

At any rate, I just stood there, staring at this pile of books disbelievingly as if they were going to jump up and smack me in the nose. Un-_freaking_-believable. When the Brig. Gen. had told me to publish my journal right before I left, I don't think this was something he had in mind. It sure as hell wasn't something _I_ did. The damn thing has gone from a private journal to a world-wide bestseller in just six months. Un-freaking-_believable_.

"Ah! There he is!"

Aw, crap. Busted. Before I could even move two feet away, the guy who was rambling on about the book being God in literary form saw me, grabbed my sleeve and yanked me in front of everyone so they could see for themselves "the man who wrote the Bible."

I swear to God, I promised myself right then and there that I would never believe in religion again after that.

The group then began immediately bombarding me with a zillion freaking questions: What did it feel like? How were the nights? Did I ever to real combat stuff, like patrols or ambushes, while I was out in Lior? Were there more stories about my buddies that never made it in there?

I dunno what the hell they were looking for, but I suddenly felt uneasy by it all. Especially the last question. God knows I've never forgotten any of my squad buddies, but they're my memories; not the worlds'. But more questions just kept raining down, like I was one of those guys on the witness stands in a courtroom. And the more they asked, the more uncomfortable I felt. Normally, I was good with crowds, but for this particular event, I wanted out.

And then, right when I felt ready to just collapse on the floor and go into a fetal position, someone shouted, "Leave him alone!"

And then this girl just popped right out of nowhere, going right in front of the crowd like that, hands on her hips like how my mother used to scold me and Jeffie back when we were little. I had absolutely no idea who this girl was, but I couldn't have been more grateful for her.

So she started yelling and hollering at them to leave me alone, that she was disgusted with all of them and all that stuff. While she's doing that, I take it as my cue to snag one of the copies (you'd think, as the author, they'd send you a copy-just to see what they'd changed- but nada), and tip-toe casually over to the counter. I paid for my purchases, stayed just a little while longer to watch her bitch the rest of the guys out (I love watching women chew people out for the crappiest things. Sucks when it's happening to me, but other people, you'd almost think you were at the theatre.), and then I sneaked out right as she finished.

Outside, I exhaled sharply. People can be such gigantic jerks. No lie. Bunch of jackasses. I started limp-walking away, hoping now to just go home, crawl under the covers, and stay there until I die, when someone behind me went "Wait."

I turned, and it was that girl who just a few seconds ago was pulling the biggest Frank Archer- shout match I had ever witnessed. She walked over to me, all nervous and stuff, probably ashamed also of the scene that had just occurred.

"Sorry about that," she said to me, "They shouldn't have done that to you. It wasn't fair."

I told her it was OK, and that she shouldn't worry about it. It was right then that I noticed she was pretty cute. She had blonde hair that was wrapped up in a ponytail, and almond-colored eyes, which I've always been particularly drawn to. Something told me she was smart, too- not one of those blondes that were about wild parties and that stuff, though I have nothing against them. And nice…despite the fact that she had just chewed off a bunch of heads at once.

We actually ended up talking for a while. Right there in front of the bookstore. Not much, and not long, just a little bit of small talk. It was kinda cool. Made me wonder why I had never known this girl before. She seemed interesting.

She then told me she had to go, but grabbed the copy of my book that I had bought and wrote something inside it. She handed it to me and smiled. I checked to see what it was and could hardly what I saw.

It was her phone number.

Usually don't get one of those 'til the third date or so.

She started walking off then, but there was no way in Hell I was just going to let her walk off without a little personal information, so I called out:

"What's your name?"

"Claire," was all I heard out of her, before she was gone.

I stood there for what had to be another twenty minutes or so, not moving, just staring off towards where she had walked off to. Claire…after all these years, I thought I had met just about everyone in Risembool, yet here was a girl I had never known existed. A pretty cool girl, I might add. Claire…

When I got home, I gave Jeffie his manga (half in a daze, still trying to figure out if it had all been a dream or not) then went up to my room and checked through the book. I scanned through each sentence and sighed in relief when I recognized every single word as my own. But one new thing was at the beginning, right before the first entry:

"_Dedicated to the soldiers I served with, especially the following: Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, Jean Havoc, Ed Elric, Angelo Fish, and Smokey."_

Yeah…I think I like that part best.

* * *

So, instead of same night, it was… what, a week?

Well, whatever. Yes, Scotty gets a new friend. Three, two, one…._Aaaaw_.

**Chapter Summery**: _Scotty and Claire continue to get to know each other over a cup of coffee and a bagel._

That's the chapter. A lil' bit of fluff for y'all, cause last story had none of that.

Review please.


	6. Entry 6

**The Shambala Chronicle**

Nope. Don't own it. Don't care what the hell you say, it doesn't belong to me.

So, after a long hiatus, I have returned. Snootch.

Now on with the show, shall we?

* * *

Entry 6:

So, after sweating it out for about a week, I finally got the nerve to call up Claire. It turned from a frantic, panicky day to one of those that makes me almost believe my time in Central never existed.

When I woke up, I looked out at the nice sunny day and realized, this was it. This was the day I would stop just looking at her number and finally call it. I would finally go and see Claire in person instead of just seeing her in my dreams. And it was also the day Jeffie would stop bugging me about her and telling me to marry her so I could stop drooling over her in my sleep.

That last one was totally uncalled for, by the way.

Not to say that there weren't problems while I was doing it. Couldn't find the number at first, and only by digging through about thirty pairs of pants did I finally manage to unearth it. My mom always insists that the more pants a guy has the less the chances he'll ever not have something to wear.

Of course, there is a thing as having too MUCH to wear, but I couldn't tell her that. You know how mothers can get.

And then, of course, I couldn't get the damn phone to start working. There had been this thunderstorm earlier this week, and power has still been quite screwy since then. All the members of my family have been complaining about it for the last three days, but I didn't really notice it. Until today, that is. Damn power people. Can't ever do anything right.

You'd think that would be the end of that, right? But years of experience has taught me that I have worse luck than a fifty-year-old virgin at a club. Pardon my analogy; it was the best I could think up. Anyway, I called the number, and someone- I guess was either a sister or a roommate, the hell if I knew which- answered. And when I heard the voice, fear gripped me like an old lady strangling a cat, and, needless to say, my next words came out…sketchy, to say it best. I'm sure to whoever was on the other end I sounded like an over-excited A.D.H.D patient, off his meds and completely out of his mind.

Somehow, I think the words "Claire" and "talk" came out clear enough for her to understand what I wanted and why I was calling like a drunk old man looking for a hook-up. That either scared her or encouraged her- depending on what kind of person she is- and I heard her calling her roommate's (sister's?) name. I made myself a mental note that I really needed to work on my phone skills.

"_Hello?"_

Claire's voice rang sweetly in my ear, and suddenly, my mouth was unclenched. It suddenly seemed easier to talk. I figured it would only get harder, but I guess I was wrong.

I told her who I was. She said hi. I said it back. Then- because I figured a play-by-play would just be unnecessary- I asked her out- not date, really, just…ah, forget it- for coffee and maybe a bite to eat. She agreed to it. I was in the go zone, and it was with that in mind that an hour later I was in front of the shop, waiting for her to come and trying to keep myself in check.

A task, as it seemed, to be harder than most.

The realization of my predicament had hit me like a fist to the balls. I was sweating, which was as rapid as a waterfall down a canyon and as welcome as a fart at a party; it was only through the power of a good deodorant stick that I avoided stinking up that whole street. I really didn't know what was wrong with me- it's not like I had never been on a date before; hell, my entire high school experience revolved around them. Maybe it was because it had been so long since my last one, that I was afraid I'd be rusty.

I was seriously thinking of just bailing on this whole deal and going home and throwing a pillow at Jeffie if he asked any questions when I heard the voice behind me.

"God, I thought you'd _never_ call."

She looked really cute. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and it seemed shiny, as though it had been done specifically for this occasion. She was dressed decent, not like all those girls I used to date back in high school. Dressed more like the girls I used to _avoid_ in high school. I didn't mind it today, though; I just grinned at her and offered her seat to her at the small little table.

OK. Maybe this wasn't going to be so hard.

I found out a lot about her today. Her full name's Claire Amberson and she's just recently moved here from Central. She had just graduated from the university there and wanted to move out here to get away from the noises the city provided. She had read my book while she had been in the city, and knew I lived out here, but had not recognized me until that day in the bookstore. She's an English major, a real bookworm, but that's OK, because at that point I really didn't care. She's really cool.

And, turns out, she had a brother that fought in Lior. He was in a different company, so I never knew him, but he was a sergeant, just like me, and he was one of the soldiers that went missing after the battle had ended.

Maybe I should re-cap.

Seven thousand soldiers went into Lior to get Scar, but he was expecting us, and had his own plan as well. We discovered a bit too late that the array he had carved in around and in the town was a transmutation circle, and it was too late to back out. Having known of the predicament, I had kept my squad out of the town. But the casualties were insurmountable. Twenty-eight men ended up dead, and another sixty-seven became wounded. Five officers made the list, amongst them Archer. But the crushing blow was the nine hundred men that went missing, their whereabouts to this day known only to God.

…Y'know, I never did find out if Scar got his wish or not. With everything that had happened directly afterwards, the thought had been pushed from my mind.

Claire missed him terribly, and she thought of him a lot. That kinda sounded like me; not a day goes by where Smokey and Shadow and all those guys come back, with those smiles on their faces. Some nights, too; that's what the dreams are for. But war affects everyone, not just the ones that were in it. The family members, the ones that wait day and night for something they're never even sure of- they suffer, too. My family was lucky; they got their son back, a little maimed, a lot different, but he returned. The family members of most of my friends weren't so lucky. Claire's family wasn't either.

The rest of the afternoon went pleasantly, us talking about any random thing that happened to pass into our brains. It was the best thing in the world, for both of us, apparently, and only had to end because Claire's sister (roommate?) called and said she should be home now. Neither of us wanted it to end, but I promised we could hang out later on this week. She told me she'd stick me to my promise, and gave me that little wave that she gave me that day we first met. Then we parted ways, me feeling slightly giddy and joyful.

Jeffie asked me over and over what had happened. I told him the truth- just talk, not much more- but he refused to buy it, because, as he put it, it just wasn't _me. _I just shrugged and went to help Mom with dinner.

I hope I get another day like this soon.

* * *

Finally done.

Review please.


	7. Entry 7

Wow...is anyone still gonna be reading this now?

So, here we go.

* * *

Entry 7:

"Why did you do it?"

That's a question that Claire asked me today when we were walking alongside the river. We had just had lunch at a restaurant and figured we'd walk it off.

I guess I should have figured it out when she had stopped talking for a while. We've only been hanging out for a couple of weeks, but already I've figured out that when she goes silent for longer than five minutes, it usually means something is on her mind.

I was still trying to pick a small chunk of bread out of my teeth, so I didn't answer her right away. I spent a minute or two picking the piece out of my two front teeth, then when I had it out I swallowed it.

"Why did I do what?" I asked.

"Why did you go to Central?"

And here I paused, my mouth open, not knowing what to say.

Now, that's a question I've never really had to answer. If you've read my first journal, and even the first couple of entries of this entry, you'll see that I've just written it off as me being the idiot that I have always been. At the time, I thought that was all I needed to say.

Because the truth is, I didn't really know why. I still don't. I just did it. I did it because high school was over, I didn't really have a plan for college or a job, all my friends were going away, and I didn't just want to stay home and be a nuisance to my family.

I told her that, and that the army just seemed like a good opportunity. "They were offering good career options. I figured it would help me get a job afterwards." I don't really know if that's the truth or not, but right then it was all I could think of to answer her with.

She just looks at me, but not in the "wow, you're stupid" look that I know I've gotten before. More like a sad look.

"Was it what you expected?"

I laughed, thinking of all that happened in three quarters of a year. All the guys I knew, the guys we lost.

"Definitely not," I answered.

"Do you regret it?"

Boy, was THAT the million dollar question. Did I regret going. How does one answer a question like that without coming off as pretentious? So I just said what I thought came naturally.

"I regret everything that happened," I said. "I regret that they happened the way they did. But I can't really say I regret going. That would just be wishful thinking."

She smiled at me and patted my arm. I felt a swarm of butterflies scurrying around in my stomach from the contact, though that may have also just been the soup we had. It tasted funny, what can I say?

Laying in bed that night, I thought of all my friends from the service. I thought of only the happy times, all the pranks me and Smokey pulled, all the alchemy Shadow used to tell me about, the time Regazzi and Squeaker put a turd wrapped in plastic at the bottom of Castillo's hole and didn't tell him about it until he had sat on it for ten minutes straight. I laughed a little at that memory, and then the laughter died when I remembered that all of those guys, save one or two, were dead.

As much as I try, I can't bring myself to regret going there. If I regret it, then everything that happened was for nothing. That's what my dad told me, the first night I was back. Regretting meant forgetting, and that world, and the people who died in that world, would have never existed. And that was not a fate that they deserved.

It's hard, though.

Too hard.

And I'm not entirely sure I can do it anymore...

* * *

Wow, it's been a really long time. Two years, I think? If you've been paying attention to my profile over the last two years, you'll have a slight idea of what's been going on with me. If not...just read it, I guess?

I'm going to really really really REALLY try to get back into this story and give it the attention it deserves. I honestly wonder if anyone out there will still give a rat's ass, but if you do...leave me some reviewing love?

So...yeah. Later...hopefully sooner than later, but you know.


End file.
